Year of the Banner
by Luridel
Summary: BG1; an exercise in 'what-if's and 'could-have-been's. "In the end, all it came down to was this: he told me to run, and I didn't."
1. Muriel, 2 Mirtul, 1368

This is... somewhat of a re-imagining of BG1, I suppose. It began as an exercise in 'what if', and turned itself into this. I may or may not actually have the willpower to update this semi-regularly. I suppose time will tell.

* * *

**Year of the Banner**

**2 Mirtul, 1368**

**_Muriel_  
**

The first day, as far as I can remember, went something like this.

When I woke up, I was alone in someone else's bed, which made no sense. Trying to disregard the dull, aching pain in my cheek, I looked around. The sheets were rough and unfamiliar, and the room was plain, undecorated. A wooden table stood in a corner, by a chair that looked unstable at best, a three-legged stool which was far too short for one to sit in and comfortably reach the surface of the table, and a much more reasonable four-legged stool. Aside from a small closet which looked as if it was meant to store clothes in, the room was devoid of all useful furniture. Servants' quarters, perhaps. The door was ajar, and the hallway behind it was lit.

I didn't remember where I was or what had happened to me. I lay back, staring at the cracked ceiling, and eventually it came to me that I knew my name. Muriel.

The door began to move, and I shut my eyes, trying to resume breathing slowly and steadily as if I were asleep, praying I would overhear something that would help me get my bearings. My cheek ached painfully, and I forced myself to ignore it.

"He's in one of his rages again, and I couldn't calm him down myself. Tamoko's gone to him." The voice was an old man's, but unfamiliar. I didn't think I'd ever heard him before. Footsteps. One, no, two people entered the room. I heard a click. That would be the door closing, I thought.

The man's companion was quick to put a name to him. "Master Perorate, why did he do this?" Master. He sounded like an apprentice of some sort, and fairly young.

"On a whim, why else?" Perorate laughed, bitterly. "Ask him, when it's safe. Maybe you'll even get an answer. He speaks to you often, does he not?"

I felt someone leaning over me, breathing practically in my face, and I did all that I could to pretend to be fast asleep. It was something I'd done before, trying to get out of trouble... that memory was hazy, but I was certain of it.

"That's a nasty burn she's got. Tamoko did that?" This was the younger man's voice, casually changing the subject.

"That she did. Clean across the cheek. It looked much worse before Aasim treated it."

Fingertips brushed my face, and I couldn't help myself. My eyes shot open and I blinked several times, adjusting to the light once more. Damning my reflexes, I made eye contact with the apprentice. His eyes were blue, and his face was stern, but young, as I had suspected. Perhaps he was in his twentieth year, like me, perhaps a little older. I had little time to stare at him, for he gave me a look I couldn't entirely interpret and held his palm over my eyes. "What are we going to do with her when she wakes up?" he asked.

"I wish I knew, Semaj. Perhaps she'll prove useful. As things stand, she's merely a nuisance. If left unattended, she'll become a danger." A brief pause. "This wasn't part of the plan. He insisted he was to kill her himself, personally. And now..."

A longer pause. I listened to the soft sounds of their breathing, deeply unsettled. A faint image came to me: a rainstorm, flashing golden eyes... I strained to recall, but it was gone as soon as it had come. Finally, Perorate spoke again. "Maybe, I should kill her now. For his sake." My breath caught in my throat.

"But she's just a child!" Semaj protested. It was obvious he was defending me, and I had no idea why. What could I possibly have done to attract the attention of these strangers?

"Just? Gorion's ward is hardly 'just' a child."

_Gorion_. And I remembered everything, just like that.

It couldn't have been that long ago. We were leaving Candlekeep, my home - just my foster-father and I, traveling at night to avoid undue attention...


	2. Imoen, 1 Mirtul, 1368

Short chapters, slow beginning. The letter is straight out of the game.

* * *

**Year of the Banner**

**1 Mirtul, 1368**

**_Imoen_  
**

_My friend Gorion,_

_Please forgive the abruptness with which I now write, but time is short and there is much to be done. What we have long feared may soon come to pass, though not in the manner foretold, and certainly not in the proper time frame. As we both know, forecasting these events has proved increasingly difficult, leaving little option other than a leap of faith. We have done what we can for those in thy care, but the time nears when we must step back and let matters take what course they will. We have, perhaps, been a touch too sheltering to this point._

_Despite my desire to remain neutral in this matter, I could not, in good conscience, let events proceed without some measure of warning. The other side will move very soon, and I urge thee to leave Candlekeep this very night, if possible. The darkness may seem equally threatening, but a moving target is much harder to hit, regardless of how sparse the cover. A fighting chance is all that can be asked for at this point_

_Should anything go awry, do not hesitate to seek aid from travelers along the way. I do not need to remind thee that it is a dangerous land, even without our current concerns, and a party is stronger than an individual in all respects. Should additional assistance be required, I understand that Jaheira and Khalid are currently at the Friendly Arm Inn. They know little of what has passed, but they are ever thy friends and will no doubt help however they can._

_Luck be with us all.  
I'm getting too old for this._

_E_

Once she had the most important points of the letter committed to memory, Imoen replaced the scroll on the desk where she had found it. Heading down a floor, she picked up the nearest book and shoved it in front of her face. There were more books here in Candlekeep than anywhere else Imoen could imagine, but she had managed to pick a rather disturbing one, featuring illustrated descriptions of some of the Underdark's residents. Quickly, she shut her eyes, leaning against the shelf. She had a bit of time to think about what she had just read before someone noticed she wasn't doing her chores, but the book she had chosen was unnerving her. Mere inches from her shut eyelids was a very accurate sketch of a very angry-looking drider - half-drow, half spider, and Imoen could almost feel it staring at her through the page.

She shut the book and put it back on the shelf, hoping her face wouldn't give away her guilt at reading what she shouldn't have been.

This letter meant two things. First, she'd won the bet she'd had with Muriel, her best friend: that letter had definitely been bad news. Second, there was danger and Gorion was leaving.

This had happened once before. Gorion had gone on a trip alone only a few years after Imoen herself had come to Candlekeep. Imoen was twelve at the time, but the event had struck her as something to remember.

He had left Muriel with old Puffguts, well, Winthrop, her boss over at the inn, and twelve-year-old Imoen found herself following the girl around throughout the library. Normally, at the age of thirteen, Muriel spent all of her free time either amongst the shelves or sparring with the Watchers. Imoen was surprised to find out how lonely the other girl was. Muriel was only a year older than her, and it was obvious that she missed Gorion very much. For the first time, Imoen put aside her dislike of the blonde-haired girl. Muriel wasn't really aloof and arrogant, she was only painfully shy and she had no idea how to approach others. Imoen had kept her company until her foster-father returned, safe and unharmed.

Now, seven years older, they were best friends, and her instincts were screaming at her that this time things were much worse.

Much later in the day, she had a run-in with Muriel that was at least as worrying as the letter had been. Strolling through the gardens, Imoen found her friend kneeling on the ground with one arm elbow-deep in one of Candlekeep's luxurious fountains, an unreadable look on her face, and - was that blood on her sleeve?

"What happened?" she asked, dropping into a crouch beside the older girl.

"I'm just clumsy," Muriel said. "It isn't a big deal." Imoen raised an eyebrow. As far as she knew, Muriel was only clumsy when boys were involved, and this didn't seem like one of those situations.

"Sure, and I'm Elminster. Gonna tell me or not?"

"Please... it's nothing to worry about, Immy. Doesn't it look like rain?"

She paused, glancing at the grey clouds creeping over the sky. Muriel's manner was obvious enough: she didn't want to talk about it. Shrugging, she let it drop. "Just be careful, okay?"

"Always am." With a weak grin, Muriel got to her feet, squeezing water from her sleeve. Imoen resisted the urge to shove her into the fountain. "Oh... Father and I are leaving today."

She'd been afraid of that.

They said their goodbyes, but Imoen wasn't at all content with this. There was something going on under her nose, or behind her back, and if Gorion was in danger, so was her best friend. That night she packed what traveling gear she had, shortbow included, and nicked a couple of potions from Winthrop's stores. Winthrop was the closest thing she'd ever had to a father. Hopefully he wouldn't be too angry with her when he found out that she'd left Candlekeep without permission.


	3. Muriel, 1 Mirtul, 1368

Another (short) chapter, and thanks for the reviews.

* * *

**Year of the Banner**

**1 Mirtul, 1368**

**_Muriel_  
**

It was raining heavily when we set out from Candlekeep. I worried for my spellbook, although it was well-wrapped and packed away in my belongings, because it was secretly comforting to still be able to fuss over trivial matters instead of the fact that two men had tried to kill me earlier in the day. I didn't know their names, but they had known mine, and they had a description of me. Gorion's ward.

I couldn't imagine why anyone would want me dead, however. I'd never been outside the keep in my life. My only guess was that it was one of Father's old enemies trying to take revenge. He'd told me many stories about his adventuring days, but I'm sure there were more that he never told me.

I didn't tell my foster-father. I didn't want him to worry about me. He was a powerful sage with powerful friends, and I had no reason to think of him as anything other than invulnerable. He was old, but I never thought about that: to me he had always been grey-bearded and wrinkled. When I was much younger, I used to hope beyond all hope that he was my true father, that one day my elven mother would emerge from beyond the veil unscathed and the three of us would live our lives together as a real family must. As I grew older, it became painfully obvious that this was nothing more than a daydream. Gorion and I shared no physical family resemblance, and my mother never showed up on our doorstep, spontaneously returned to life.

"Muriel? Child, are you listening?"

"Oh--" I snapped quickly to attention. "--yes, Father?"

"Khalid and Jaheira," he said, "at the Friendly Arm Inn. If... anything should happen, that's where you should go to. Those two are friends of mine, and they can be trusted."

I nodded understanding, feeling like I'd heard those names before but unable to match them with faces. Then a roll of thunder startled me out of my preoccupations once more, and we began walking. I held his hand the way I used to do when I was younger, figuring there was no one about to tease me for doing so. Father led us on a path through the woods instead of sticking to the road. I was unable to shake the feeling that somebody was watching me, and I tugged the gray hood of my cloak up to obscure my face.

I didn't know how long we'd been walking before he stopped dead in his tracks. "Wait," he said. I frowned, puzzled. "There is something wrong..."

My eyes jerked upwards, and I saw faint red shapes moving in the darkness some distance away. Suddenly more grateful for my infravision than I had ever been, I pointed them out with my free hand. "There, and there," I whispered. "I think it's an ambush, Father."

"Prepare yourself." He squeezed my hand once, then let go, his fingers moving into the complicated gestures of a spell I'd never seen him cast before. I drew my longsword, the hilt cool in my palm. It was newly-purchased, but already it felt at home in my grip, as all weapons did when I handled them.

"You're perceptive for an old man." The voice was loud, confident, and mocking. "You know why I'm here." From the trees ahead, figures stepped into the clearing: two ogres, a woman, and a tall, armored man. He towered over all but the ogres. Staring through the rain at the two-handed blade he carried, I felt as if I were armed with nothing but a flimsy stick. "Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist it shall be a waste of your life."

He meant me. "You're a fool if you believe I would trust--" Gorion began, but I didn't even stop to think, I just stepped forward.

"I surrender," I said, lowering the point of my sword.

Behind me, my father grabbed my shoulder. "No, child! Run, get out of here!" I heard the woman begin to chant, her palms cupped in front of her.

I shook my head; stood my ground. "No. I surrender."

The ogres advanced. A flash of lightning did for one, glowing red spheres of energy downed the other, though my father's right hand remained on my shoulder. _Contingency spell_, I thought.

A red arrow of light seared from the woman's fingertips towards me, grazing across my cheek, and my vision blurred. My face burned like fire, despite the rain, and I could barely see the armored shape move towards us.

"He had his chance to surrender," he said. Then... one strike, that was all it took, just one. I looked down at my father's body. "You're not going to scream, to run?" asked the man, incredulous. "You're not even going to fight back?"

My mind felt as dead as ice, and the rational part of me retreated even deeper. "I won't beg for my life," I told him, "I'm not that pathetic." The force with which I brought my blade down against his armored side made little difference, for as it struck, the iron crumbled, useless, shattering and breaking off at the hilt. _He let me, he let me have that hit,_ I knew. He'd made no attempt to step aside or to parry.

I don't remember what I was thinking, if I was thinking anything. Fear was less than a memory. Then I was screaming - "I surrender! I SURRENDER!" - and hacking uselessly away at the man with the hilt of my broken sword, his laugh ringing in my ears.


	4. Xan, 13 Ches, 2 Mirtul, 1368

**Year of the Banner**

**13 Ches, 1368**

**Xan  
**

There were, in Xan's opinion, many more drawbacks than benefits to being a defender of Elvendom, and one of those numerous drawbacks of owning a Moonblade was that it made you very conspicuous. Even at the very northernmost fringes of Amn, in the town of Nashkel, mages and magic-users were regarded with suspicion. Dressed in the deep purple robes of his family, Xan felt like a slow-moving target.

Several human children were crowded in a circle around something, occasionally bending down to prod at it. Xan drew nearer, wary, and the children scattered at the sight of him, revealing a small squirrel. He sighed, and the squirrel fled from him as well, dashing straight up a nearby tree.

Xan heard someone approach, and turned to look up at the human with the neatly-trimmed beard. He had the look of a retired adventurer. Even if not from the scars, you could tell by something in the eyes, Xan had always thought. They had a haunted, jumpy look... There was a pause, in which Xan recognized the man from the basic description he had been given. "Berrun Ghastkill, I presume?"

"Aye, and you'd be--"

"Xan Blacksheaf of Evereska, at your service."

The mayor of Nashkel, for that was who he was, relaxed slightly. "The Greycloaks' letter spoke of you. I've been expecting... You'll be wanting to take a look at the mines, then?"

_Take a look at the mines. I've not been here a day and already I can tell it's futile._ He did have his orders, however. "I would, yes." It was a step towards the source of the problems troubling the region, at the least.

**2 Mirtul, 1368**

**Xan**

... so when had this all gone awry? It was clear, still, that he was dying a slow death despite the half-orc feeding him - if he could call it food. Perhaps he was feverish. He'd long ceased being a source of amusement for the kobolds. During the first few days of his confinement, they'd gathered around him, pulling at his hair and yipping to each other. It was clear the half-orc didn't know what to do with him. His name was Mulahey, and he was by no means stupid. The kobolds treated him like a god.

Oh, he'd investigated Nashkel's mines, all right. Not a day in the forsaken place and he'd been caught off-guard. They'd taken his spellbook, and worse, they'd taken his Moonblade. It was still nearby, or he'd be dead. Perhaps in the very next room. Still, its prolonged absence wore on him more than the chains around his wrists and ankles. He had another few months, he supposed, before the inevitable.


End file.
